


Countess of Confusion, Duchess of Disorder

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: Community: unconventionalcourtship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeking distraction after the death of her husband, Clarissa Pink accepts an invitation to a risqué house party. She certainly wasn't expecting an attack by a ruthless assassin — or assistance from a no-nonsense duchess by the name of Lucie Miller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the unconventionalcourtship romance-novel ficathon, based on the summary of 'Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire' by Carole Mortimer.
>
>> The Players:  
> [Lucie Miller], Duchess of Wolfingham: legendary siren and notorious ~~spinster~~ ladette  
>  [Clarissa Pink], Countess of Carlisle: society's scandalous widow and secret agent of ~~the Crown~~ Clara Oswald  
>  The Stage:  
> A notoriously debauched house party  
> The Scene:  
> Forced to pose as lovers, Lucie and Clarissa must work together to stop an assassination plot  
> The Twist:  
> As the shocking and oh-so-sensual games play out around them, the romantic ruse becomes all too real. And the tantalizing temptation to indulge their every desire becomes overwhelming…  
> 

As the carriage rattled up the long, winding drive of Calcorton Hall, Clarissa, Countess of Carlisle, looked out of the window with no more than a vague interest. Two years ago, as a mere governess, she would never have dreamed of accepting an invitation of the sort that had brought her here. A year later, newly married and a countess, she had had even less interest in flirting and debauchery. Rumour, she knew, said that the death of her husband in a riding accident had damaged, if not her reason, her morals; and, in her darker moments, she was inclined to agree. Within a month of becoming a widow, she was drifting this way and that in society, a leaf on the wind. But better that than Carlisle House, with memories of Rupert lurking around every corner ready to pounce on her, and the visions of drowning and death that haunted her nightmares. 

With a slight jump, she realised that the carriage had come to a halt some little while ago, and the coachman was already opening the door and lowering the steps. Clarissa climbed cautiously out, and took in the scene. At first glance the Hall appeared to be in the Palladian style, and so new that the paint on its woodwork was barely dry. But from the less-than-symmetrical gables and jumbled assortment of chimneys lurking behind the brand new frontage, it was clear that this was merely a new front attached to a far older building. 

Before Clarissa could give the scene any more of her attention, she became aware of a tall, plump, florid-faced gentleman hurrying down the steps of the portico to greet her. Behind him, a stately, impassive butler was followed by two footmen and a maid. 

"Your ladyship." The fop bustled up to her and kissed her hand. "May I say how honoured we are by your presence? Lord Petimont, at your service. Welcome to my family's humble abode." 

"Thank you." Clarissa knew Petimont only by reputation, but to her way of thinking there was little to choose between him and most of polite London society. "You have been kindness itself to invite me." 

"I assure you, it was the least we could do." Petimont finally straightened up, and waved at his servants. "See that the Countess's luggage is dealt with, Mortlock." 

The butler bowed stiffly, then turned to the footmen. "Samuel. William. You heard his lordship." 

"Y'see," Petimont went on, as the footmen started to unload Clarissa's trunk from the carriage, "I thought: Here's a young lady, who's had, pardon me, some deuced bad luck — I'm afraid I never had the honour of knowing your late husband — and I thought: What she needs is taking out of herself. Meet some fresh faces." 

"That was very... _thoughtful_ of you," Clarissa said. 

"And I'll wager you won't find a livelier party in all of England." He held out his arm to Clarissa. "Please, come in. You'll want to change after your journey." He cast what he probably thought was a furtive glance at the carriage. "I daresay all those widow's weeds are just the thing for the public to see — but not quite the thing for a house party, eh?" 

Clarissa nodded. "Your point is well made." 

"Good show. You'll have—" He turned to the butler. "Mortlock, what's the girl's name?" 

"Judith, my lord." 

"Of course." He nodded at the maid. "She'll be at your disposal for your visit. Help you with clothes, and so forth." He let out a disconcerting chuckle. "If you decide to wear any, of course." 

⁂

Clarissa's room was in the new part of the building, on the second floor, with a view from the window over recently-landscaped grounds, and woodland beyond. On looking out she had been struck, once again, by the remoteness of the Hall. If she had to get anywhere on her own feet, it would be at least an hour's walk. 

"So what sort of thing goes on at these parties?" she asked. 

Judith, who had been carefully arranging Clarissa's dresses in the wardrobe, gave a little squeak of surprise at being addressed. 

"Well, my lady," she began, ground to a halt, and blushed hotly. 

"Go on," Clarissa said, trying to adopt the encouraging tone she had used on her shyer pupils, back in her governess days. 

"It's said Lord Petimont's parties are the wildest in England, my lady. I couldn't speak to that, not having served anywhere but here." She looked down. "I don't think there's much that doesn't happen at his parties. Drinking, and gambling, and... horseplay. With the young ladies, I mean." She briefly looked up at Clarissa, as if seeking approval. In Judith's eyes, Clarissa surmised, she was another hedonistic aristocrat, and debauchery and depravity were just what she was looking for in a house party. Well, they passed the time, at least. 

"Sounds like fun," Clarissa said, forcing a smile. 

Judith blushed again. "Will that be all, my lady?" 

"For now." 

"The bell's by the fireplace, my lady, when you want me again." And with that, the maid curtseyed, and backed out of the room, nearly knocking an occasional table to the floor as she did so. 

"Right." Clarissa walked across to the wardrobe, and began the tedious but necessary process of choosing a dress for the evening. 

⁂

Despite the rumours of nameless depravities, the preparations for dinner had been nothing but formal and conventional. Clarissa had arrived in the mansion's salon — another new room, fitted out in the most recent and lavish taste — and there been introduced to her fellow guests. Most were already known to her, at least by sight. For example, the large, boisterous, careless man with straw-coloured hair, whom anybody might have thought to be a blacksmith, was none other than Sir Philip Thorn, the Secretary of State at War. And the dazzlingly-attired young lady pretending no more than a casual acquaintance with him was the notorious Belle Prentice, one of London's elite circle of courtesans, widely rumoured to be his mistress. There were those who said that it was she, rather than Sir Philip, who was chiefly responsible for recent successes in the seemingly endless war against the French. 

As she watched Miss Prentice exchange a few words with one Mr Ruthven, the heir to a large estate in Bedfordshire, Clarissa heard a polite cough behind her. She turned to see Lord Petimont, with another young woman in tow: one completely unknown to Clarissa. 

"Your grace, permit me to present to you Lady Pink, Countess of Carlisle," Petimont said, addressing the unknown woman. "Lady Pink: Her Grace the Duchess of Wolfingham." 

"Nice to meet you," the Duchess said. She spoke with a Lancashire accent that reminded Clarissa of her days as a governess in that county, and her sharp blue eyes surveyed Clarissa with the clear implication that she could take Clarissa or leave her. Her hair was auburn, styled in an elaborate profusion of curls; in height she was no taller than Clarissa; and her costume verged on the risqué. 

A few tactful enquiries from Clarissa brought forth the information that the Duchess was not accompanied by her husband, or any of her retainers. Like Clarissa, she had not attended one of Lord Petimont's house parties before, and the distance of Wolfingham from London had precluded her from joining London society. Clarissa, while commenting that this had deprived London of its brightest jewel, found herself wondering if the Duchess was really all she seemed. Her grasp of etiquette seemed sketchy, and any questions Clarissa asked about Wolfingham were answered with the most general platitudes. Had Lord Petimont connived in her introduction to the party, or had she deceived him? 

Not, Clarissa thought, that it mattered much. Any attractive, young, well-dressed woman — and the Duchess certainly qualified on that score — would doubtless be allowed to join this house party without the slightest hesitation.


	2. Death in the Darkness

The party that sat down to dine was certainly one of the most raucous that Clarissa had attended. Her title had placed her near the head of the table, quite close enough to have the Duchess of Wolfingham in view and hear her conversation. It was quite enough to cement Clarissa's doubts about the Duchess's antecedents; the girl had a repertoire of filthy jokes that equalled any told by the men, and between that and her accent, Clarissa was doubly convinced that the Duchess had risen to her present station and wealth extremely recently — if at all. 

"You seem _distraite_ , Lady Clarissa," Mr Ruthven, who was sitting beside her, said. 

"Oh. Yes." Clarissa took another spoonful of Parmesan-flavoured ice cream. "Sorry, I don't think I'm getting into the spirit of things yet." 

Ruthven patted her free hand. "I'm sure you will in no time, my dear. A little bird tells me there's a special bit of fun planned for tonight." 

"If anyone's able to stand by then." 

"If not, there are always other things one can do. Eh?" 

Maybe it was the heat of the room, or the wine, but Clarissa felt herself blushing. "That's very naughty of you, sir." 

"But of course," Ruthven replied, lifting her hand to his lips. 

Through the rest of the meal, Clarissa managed to keep up her end of the conversation, and even perpetrate an innuendo or two of her own. It seemed to convince her fellow diners, at least. Just as at other parties, though, she found it impossible to lose herself in hedonism. Worries were gnawing at her, from her vague concern about the Duchess to the dark visions that came to her at night. Besides, she had definite standards when it came to the opposite sex, and many of the rakes here fell far short of them. 

As the last dishes were removed by the servants, Lord Petimont rose to his feet and thumped the table. Under normal circumstances, Clarissa supposed, the ladies would now retire and leave the gentlemen to their port and conversation. But given Ruthven's hints, she suspected these circumstances were not in the least normal. 

"Tonight," Petimont announced, "we shall be playing Nymphs and Satyrs." 

Some of the guests — presumably those who had been here previously, and knew what to expect — raised a cheer. 

"Permit me to explain, for those who are new to our little gatherings," he went on. "Ladies, you shall wander among the verdant groves of our delightful gardens. The gentlemen — myself included, of course — are to don appropriate costume and masks, and give chase. Should you lay hands on a fair nymph, she may choose to bestow a kiss upon you." 

"Or more!" one of the more drunken rascals called out. 

"Remember, Hadley, you remain a gentleman." Lord Petimont's words might have been stern, but his smirk robbed them of any force they might have had. "And may you all capture a willing partner!" 

⁂

With nervous flutters and the occasional giggle, the 'nymphs' gathered at the nearer end of the Yew Walk. The night breeze was chilly, and the grass damp; Clarissa felt acutely aware how thin and insubstantial her dress was, not to mention her light indoor shoes. 

"Ladies, we shall give you five minutes' start," Lord Petimont proclaimed. "On your marks. Get set. Go!" 

The group glanced at each other, then headed into the gardens, moving cautiously in the weak moonlight. In moments they were swallowed by the shadows, only briefly reappearing to Clarissa as pale blurs flitting from one patch of darkness to another. Sharply telling herself that this was no time for delay, Clarissa advanced into the Yew Walk herself. 

Before the five minutes were up, clouds had covered the moon. With the darkness and the shadow of the trees, Clarissa found herself hopelessly lost, blindly groping her way along hedges or stumbling over tree roots. Once or twice she fancied she could hear the footsteps or breathing of one of her fellow-guests, but the impression quickly passed. 

Her heart leapt in her chest at the sound of hunting horns, from somewhere behind her. The five minutes must be up; with raucous cries, the 'satyrs' were in pursuit. Heavy feet could be heard, passing this way and that. 

Back in the warmth and light of the dining room, Clarissa had formed a careful plan for how she was going to approach this entertainment. She had resolved to conceal herself close to where she had entered the walk, pick out a suitable gentleman from the pursuing party, and follow him. She'd imagined herself sure-footedly tracking him through the shrubbery, with complete command of the situation. Now she realised how unrealistic that plan had been. She was adrift in a sea of shadows — shadows with who knew what intentions. 

She rounded a corner, and bumped into a man, though who it might have been she could not have said. He pulled her into an embrace; Clarissa allowed him to steal a kiss, then slipped through his arms and let the darkness swallow her once more. Perhaps there was something to be said for this game, after all. 

⁂

It was later — how much later, Clarissa wasn't sure. She didn't have any clear idea where she was, either, in the seemingly endless maze of shrubs and hedges. Now and again she'd heard the sound of amorous couples — at least, she hoped they were amorous couples — but hadn't brought herself to intrude on them. 

At the hand laid on her arm, she jumped, but did not resist as its owner gently drew her to him. His fingers brushed lightly across her face, then returned for a more thorough exploration. The grip on her other arm suddenly tightened. 

"Well met, indeed," his voice whispered. "Hail and farewell... Clara Oswald." 

Clarissa opened her mouth to correct him, but no words came out. Perhaps her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, or a faint ray of starlight had penetrated the clouds. However it was, she had seen the gleam of metal in the man's free hand. As he made to thrust it towards her, she caught at his wrist, and felt sudden pain in her arm. With all her strength, she tore herself from his grip and ran, not caring where. A hedge loomed up before her, a black wall of yew in the darkness. She threw herself flat and wriggled between what felt like two trunks, the branches tearing at her dress. On the far side of the hedge, she climbed to her feet with little room in her mind for anything beyond self-preservation. Behind her, her pursuer was trying to force his own way through the hedge, maintaining a purposeful silence that was somehow worse than threats or curses. The last of Clarissa's careful planning deserted her, and she took to her heels. 

For what felt like an eternity she blundered blindly through blackness, desperately diving for cover at any real or imagined pursuit, and always conscious of the hunter behind her. Her right arm still hurt, and when she touched her sleeve, it felt sticky with blood. 

Abruptly, she collided with some piece of statuary, hard enough to knock her to the ground and, doubtless, leave her with bruises. Before she could get up, she heard running feet approaching, and someone tripped over her, landing with an "Oof!". A moment later that was elaborated to "What are you doing down there, you dozy dollop?" The voice was unmistakeable: Clarissa had managed to collide with none other than the Duchess of Wolfingham. 

The two groped for each other in the darkness; there was an exclamation as the Duchess felt Clarissa's bloodied sleeve. "Hey," she said, the anger in her voice replaced by concern. "You OK?" 

"Am I what?" Clarissa asked, keeping her voice low. 

"You're bleeding, aren't you?" 

Clarissa dropped her voice further. "Someone tried to stab me. One of the men. I couldn't see who." 

" _Stab_ you?" the Duchess repeated. "What was he—" She broke off and stiffened in alarm, at the sound of stealthy approaching footsteps. "Is that him?" 

"Probably." Clarissa felt terrified, and hot, and helpless. "I don't know." 

"Well, we need to make sure he doesn't notice us. On your back." 

"What?" 

"Hurry!" the Duchess hissed. 

Clarissa hastily rolled onto her back, and straightaway felt the weight of the Duchess's body on top of her. For a moment she wondered if the Duchess intended simply to conceal her; then, as the Duchess began to murmur ridiculous endearments interspersed with gasps and moans, she realised that they were supposed to pose as lovers. Unsure whether to laugh or scream, she did her best to play her part, trying to imitate the sounds of a seduction in full progress. The footsteps came closer, paused briefly, then moved away. 

For several minutes afterwards the pair continued to wriggle and gasp, fearing that if they should stop too abruptly, the mysterious attacker might become suspicious and return. Once it seemed reasonably sure that he would not, they drew apart and climbed to their feet once more. 

"You need to get that arm looked at," the Duchess whispered. "Let's get you back to the house." 

"Whichever way that is," Clarissa replied. 

"Yeah, I could really do with a pair of night-vision goggles right now. We'll just have to do our best. Keep hold of me hand and don't let go whatever happens." 

Clarissa was quick to comply. With the Duchess in the lead, the two set out for the house — or, at least, in their best guess at the right direction. The guess proved to be an unlucky one; within minutes, they had stumbled into a bed of roses and were trying to disentangle their dresses from the thorns. 

"This is sodding hopeless," the Duchess muttered. Clarissa, despite herself, gasped; that a Duchess would use such language was almost more shocking to her than being held at knifepoint. "What are we supposed to do? Stay out here all night?" 

"We'd catch our deaths of cold if we did," Clarissa said firmly. The night had a decidedly clammy feel to it, and her light, flimsy dress certainly wasn't up to the job of keeping her warm. "Perhaps if we were under a hedge it mightn't be so—" 

The scream came from nearby — a shriek of pain and terror. It was followed almost at once by other shouts, men and women, and the sounds of running feet. Orders were bellowed; servants with lanterns came hurrying from the direction of the house. Clarissa and the Duchess, still hand in hand, pulled themselves free of the roses and headed in the direction of the noise. 

The lamps were clustering in a small garden: a simple rectangle of grass, surrounded by thick yew hedges, with a statue at the far end and a pond in the centre. Some servants were holding their lanterns high, to illuminate the scene, while others hauled something out of the pond. It looked limp, scarcely more than a discarded bundle of clothes; but inside the clothes were the mortal remains of a woman. Clarissa tried to force herself to look closer, to see if she could recognise the dead woman, but as she tried to focus on the girl's face the garden whirled around her. The voices were drowned out by the sound of the sea roaring in her ears. 

She was vaguely conscious of the Duchess's arms around her, of her sharp voice calling for help, of servants supporting her as they made their way back to the house. By the time she'd reached her bedroom, she was more or less back to normal. With Judith's assistance, in the flickering candlelight, she made her best shift at cleaning and bandaging the long scratch on her forearm where the unknown man had slashed at her. Then she crawled into bed, to wait for the inevitable nightmares.


	3. Alliance

Clarissa woke the following morning with a firm plan of action in her mind. Having risen and breakfasted, she picked her moment and caught the butler's attention. 

"Mortlock," she said. "If I wanted to have a conversation in private, where would be a good place?" 

If her request had surprised him, he didn't show it. But then, she supposed, he must have heard many such requests over the years. 

"In this weather, my lady, I would recommend Lady Beatrice's Walk," he replied smoothly. 

"Then could you tell the Duchess of Wolfingham that I would be grateful for a few words with her, and she can find me there?" 

Mortlock bowed. "Very good, my lady." 

"Oh." Clarissa had been on the point of leaving, but the realisation had struck her just in time. "Where is Lady Beatrice's Walk?" 

"On the roof, my lady." 

"And how do I get there?" 

"It is reached by a staircase from the attic corridor in the northern range. I would suggest, my lady, that from here you proceed along the oak corridor, turning left at the suit of armour, then ascend to the second landing..." 

Clarissa found herself wishing that she had brought a pencil and paper to take notes. Still, the butler's directions seemed clear enough. 

"Thank you," she said. "Please let the Duchess know that I will meet her there." 

⁂

Clarissa had had to try a few doors before she hit upon the one leading to the roof. She hurried up the narrow staircase, and emerged at the top through an awkward hatch onto a walkway, which ran between two adjacent pitched roofs. At the far end, she could see the green of topiary — doubtless the gardens in which she had been wandering for so much of the previous night. The brickwork and chimneys around her were old and weathered, perhaps dating from the time of the first King James or his son. 

"Hello," the Duchess's voice said, behind her. 

Clarissa turned, to see the Duchess clambering out of the hatch. As she did so, Clarissa curtseyed politely. 

"Your grace," she said. 

The Duchess looked exasperated. "Give it a rest. I'm getting sick and tired of all this 'your grace' stuff. I don't need it from you too. My name's Lucie, so you can call me that. It's Lucie with an I E, by the way, not a Y." 

Clarissa swallowed. "I thank you for your kindness, madam. Lucie," she hastily corrected herself. "In that case, you'd better call me Clarissa." 

"Bit of a mouthful," Lucie said cheerfully. "So, how's Clarissa today?" 

"Quite well, thank you." 

"What about your arm?" 

"Oh, it's just a scratch." 

"It isn't just anything." Lucie scowled at the thought. "OK, what are we up here for?" 

Clarissa walked about halfway along the walkway — far enough, she hoped, to take them out of earshot of the hatch, but not so far that they would be visible from the gardens. 

"I thought I had better explain my conduct last night," she said. 

"You said someone was trying to kill you." 

"I'm sure of it." 

Lucie shrugged. "Then you don't have to explain anything. You weren't faking being scared last night, I'd swear to it." 

"Thank you." Clarissa might have ended the conversation then, but instead she said "The woman who drowned. She did drown, didn't she?" 

"That's what they're saying," Lucie said, not sounding convinced. 

"Did you see who she was?" 

"Phoebe de Courcey. Did you know her?" 

Clarissa nodded. "We'd met in London once or twice. She wasn't a bad girl." She swallowed, trying to dispel the mental image of Phoebe's body being hauled from the water. "More to the point, as you doubtless appreciate, she was of similar height and build to me." 

"And she had dark hair, too." Lucie was obviously having no difficulty keeping up with Clarissa's reasoning. "You reckon the bloke who went for you did it? He thought she was you?" 

"I fear so." 

"That means it was you he was after, doesn't it?" 

"I think so." Clarissa briefly closed her eyes, picturing the scene. "He certainly seemed to recognise me. And he called me Clara Oswald. My maiden name was Clarissa Oswald. He surely couldn't have meant anybody else." 

Lucie nodded. "So it's you he wants to kill. Badly enough he doesn't mind bumping off other girls along the way. D'you think you'd know him again?" 

"I don't think so. You see, I never saw his face." 

"What about his body? Was he tall, short, fat, thin?" 

Clarissa shook her head. "I don't know." 

"Look, let's act it out. See if it helps you remember. How were you standing?" 

"Like this. And he was standing in front of me." Clarissa guided Lucie to the right place, close enough that she could imagine those auburn curls brushing against her cheek. "He put his hand on my face." 

Lucie obediently raised her hand to Clarissa's face. 

"And then he recognised you?" 

"Quite." Clarissa shivered at the thought. "He was a tall man. A foot taller than you, I'm sure." 

"Can I let go of you now?" 

"If you must. Though I find your close presence enjoyable. It is almost an embrace, after all." 

"Don't get any bright ideas," Lucie said, letting go of Clarissa and taking a step back. "The last thing we need's you getting all bi-curious just when we need to keep our minds on the job." 

"Of course." Clarissa pulled herself together. "But... 'our minds'? There is no call for you to become involved with my situation." 

"Like that's going to stop me," Lucie said dismissively. "I get involved with what I like, when I like. I'm on this case now, like it or not." 

"Please believe me when I say that I definitely like it. Very well. We need to consider all the men at the party." 

"Could've been someone who wasn't at the party," Lucie said thoughtfully. "He'd just have to show up in the right clothes and hope no-one saw his face. S'pose he'd have had to know that old Petimont was gonna have us all running round the garden at dead of night." 

"True. If it was an outsider, Lord Petimont must have arranged with him that Nymphs and Satyrs would be played last night. And we must not overlook the servants. One could have dressed as a gentleman and joined the party." 

Lucie nodded. "OK, then. It's—" 

"You keep using that expression," Clarissa interrupted. "'OK'. What does it mean?" 

"It means 'all right,' I suppose." Lucie looked, for a moment, almost guilty. "You really haven't heard it before?" 

"Never." 

"I won't use it again, then. And you'd better not either, OK?" She slapped her own forehead. "Sorry. Just forget I ever said it." 

Clarissa gave her a puzzled look. "Gladly. But before I interrupted, you were going to say something, I believe?" 

"Oh. Yeah." Lucie recovered her train of thought. "Whoever's trying to whack you, it's most likely someone in the house, and probably one of the guests. D'you think you'd know him if you were standing next to him again?" 

"I don't know." Clarissa could feel her flesh creeping just at the thought. 

"Well, give it a go. Get close to all the tall blokes and check them out." 

"And you'd better deal with the other lines of inquiry. Talk to the staff, and see if anyone spotted a stranger last night. Oh, and thank you for believing me." 

"Any time. Right, we'd better get started." Lucie turned to go, then turned back as a thought struck her. "Oh. Just remembered." She stuck her hand down the front of her dress. "Got a note this morning. Just before that butler told me you were up here. Where's the stupid thing got to?" She managed to retrieve the note, by now somewhat crumpled, and unfolded it. "Says 'Lord Petimont requests the pleasure of the Duchess of Wolfingham's company at noon, in the...'" she peered at the next word. "'Bag-ni-o?'" 

"The G is silent," Clarissa said, all her governess's instincts surging up. " _Bagnio_." 

"And what's that when it's at home?" 

"Literally, the word means a bath-house. But what it usually means is a house of ill repute." 

"Yeah, guess which one Petimont's got." Lucie resumed reading. "'For a picnic,' except he's written it in French. You know, ' _Piquenique._ ' Suppose he wants to sound sophisticated. 'And games of chance.' You know what I think?" 

"No. I presume you're about to tell me." 

"I think it won't be money he's expecting us to bet. More likely our clothes, or our... you know." 

"Virtue?" 

"Yeah." Lucie shrugged. "Don't think I've got any left." 

"I could give you a second opinion, if you like," Clarissa said, with what she hoped was a seductive smile. 

"Business first," Lucie said firmly. "See you there."


	4. Cards and Consequences

The _bagnio_ was one of the numerous buildings and follies that dotted the landscaped grounds of Calcorton Hall. It was a small, single-storey building of vaguely classical design. Inside, it was divided in two by a stream of water, which poured from an elaborate sculpture, through a channel in the floor, into a rectangular pool. The walls were painted with images in the same approximation to classical style; the artist's principal directive seemed to have been to include as many topless women as possible. 

As befitted a glorified summerhouse, the building seemed to have no permanent furniture, merely a collection of tables and chairs obviously assembled for the purpose. The seating must have been worked out in advance; Lucie was swiftly whisked away to a table with Sir Philip Thorn and two people Clarissa didn't recognise. Clarissa herself was seated with Mr Ruthven, a tall, plump, middle-aged gentleman who was introduced as Mr Wilbraham, and a provocatively-dressed girl by the name of Maria Sedleigh, who appeared scarcely older than some of Clarissa's pupils. 

The first order of business, it seemed, was luncheon. No sooner had Clarissa taken her seat, than footmen were setting out plates of cold meat and pastries, while Mortlock — doubtless on the instructions of his master — ensured that no wineglass remained empty. Clarissa took care to drink only moderately. The sound of flowing water filled the _bagnio_ , a constant reminder to Clarissa of drowned Phoebe in the fountain. And how easy it would be for Phoebe's killer to arrange another such 'accident' here, for Clarissa! 

Once the tables were cleared, a footman moved from table to table, placing a pack of cards on each. As he did so, Lord Petimont addressed the gathering. 

"My lords, ladies, gentlemen," he began. "As I'm sure you know, last night, Miss de Courcey was accidentally drowned. It has been my duty to report this to the magistrate, Sir Giles Savery, and he may wish to pay us a visit to verify the facts. You will, I'm sure, give him all possible cooperation. 

"I am equally sure that Miss de Courcey would not have wanted her unhappy accident to darken the mood of our little house party, or for us to give up our entertainments for her sake. What could be more civilised, then, than a simple game of cards between friends? But as we all know, nothing is so injurious to a friendship than the vulgar concerns raised by matters of money. I will therefore insist that you may wager what you choose — provided it is nothing so mundane as lucre." He held a white silk handkerchief aloft, and let it fall. "Let the games begin!" 

Clarissa had never considered herself a particularly gifted card player, even when she had nothing else on her mind. In the present situation, with the knowledge that the man who'd tried to kill her was probably in the room, and possibly sitting at the same table, her performance was nothing short of woeful. After no more than two hands, in which she had lost her shoes and pelisse, she was glumly anticipating a rapid and humiliating defeat. Maria, her ostensible partner, was clearly a far more seasoned player despite her youth, and was playing entirely for her own advantage. If her tactics resulted in Clarissa losing her clothes and more to one of the men, what would that be to Maria? 

Clarissa's salvation, if it could be so described, came by way of the men at her table. In their third game, Mr Ruthven, by a lucky coup, relieved Maria of her cape. The dress she was wearing underneath was, to say the least, diaphanous, and clearly detrimental to his own powers of concentration. And Mr Wilbraham seemed not so much distracted as oblivious, throwing down his cards with the air of one unconcerned with such trifles, and treating strong hands and weak with equal indifference. 

It was during their fifth game that Clarissa, with her dress at stake, was distracted by the sound of raucous laughter from one of the other tables. 

"Zounds!" Wilbraham set his cards aside. "I say, what's all the noise about?" 

Several voices answered simultaneously. Lord Petimont's rose above the din. 

"It's Belle!" he cried. "She wagered that if she lost she'd walk the pole. And lost she has!" 

Among the renewed cheering and laughter, Belle Prentice rose, a demure smile on her face and cold fury in her eyes. Escorted by Lord Petimont, she made her way to the pool that lay at the centre of the _bagnio_. A polished wooden pole had been laid across the water. Clearly, all Miss Prentice needed to do was keep her balance, and she could cross it in half-a-dozen steps. 

The other players, their own games set aside, hastily gathered around the pool. Belle, who had been glancing this way and that, squared her shoulders and set out on her perilous walk. Six steps would suffice to bring her to dry land; she managed but two, before slipping sideways and plunging into the pool. Seeing the white-clad figure struggling in the water, Clarissa felt the choking horror of the previous night rush back to engulf her. She swayed, and would have fallen had not somebody — she was unsure who — supported her. 

Then Belle's bedraggled head broke the surface, and the nightmare dissolved in general laughter. Sir Philip Thorn hastily stepped forward and lifted his infuriated mistress out of the water, draping his coat around her shoulders. 

"Back to our game, my lady?" a quiet voice suggested. Clarissa looked up to see that it was Mr Wilbraham who'd been supporting her. He was taller than she'd thought him, she realised, and powerfully built. Considered purely as a physical specimen, he might well have been her would-be assassin of the previous evening. Though, as she was well aware, that was by no means proof that he had been. 

Her luck seemed to have turned, though; she won the hand, and her dress, to Mr Ruthven's obvious disappointment, remained safe. 

⁂

"Enjoyed yourself?" Lucie asked, falling in with Clarissa as they left the _bagnio_. 

"I've had better afternoons," Clarissa said. She looked Lucie up and down; she appeared to have gambled away every item of clothing except a flimsy chemise. "Aren't you cold?" 

Lucie shook her head. "This is nothing to a night out in Blackpool. Anyway, I don't feel the cold much." 

"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd fallen in the pool." 

"Then they should've made me try and walk across while I still had me socks on," Lucie said triumphantly. "Barefoot, it's easy." 

"I shall take your word for it. Personally, I'm very glad Maria and I won that hand." Clarissa found herself unable to repress a giggle. "The look on her face when I said we'd both do it if we lost. She made very sure that we won." 

"It'd've been better if the other bloke went in. What's his name?" 

"Ruthven," Clarissa said. Mr Ruthven's swaying, panicked, wide-eyed performance on the pole had given the other guests immense amusement, followed by disappointment when he had, against all the odds, made it safely across. Mr Wilbraham, on the other hand, had made it no more than halfway before succumbing. 

"Yeah. Him. He'd definitely have looked better in a wet shirt than Tubby." 

"Don't underestimate Mr Wilbraham." Clarissa looked around, checking that none of their fellow guests was in earshot. The group seemed to have spread out enough that nobody was particularly close at hand; Mr Ruthven and Maria seemed to have vanished altogether. Nonetheless, Clarissa lowered her voice. "He's tall enough to be the killer. And he may not be young, but he keeps himself in decent shape." 

"Could be. Or it could be him." Lucie directed Clarissa's attention to the party of men escorting the bedraggled Miss Prentice. "Sir Percy Blakeney." 

"The tall one? With dark hair?" 

"That's him." Lucie paused as Sir Percy raised a quizzing-glass and made some remark. From the laughter that followed, Clarissa suspected it had been a jest at the luckless Belle's expense. "He was on the next table to us," Lucie went on. "Doesn't look like he lost once, does it?" 

"Unless it wasn't his clothes he was betting." 

"Yeah, could be. Ow, this gravel's no fun to walk on with bare feet." Lucie fell silent until the gravel had given way to a paved terrace. "So we've got three suspects. Thorn, Wilbraham and Blakeney. And we've got the same problem with all of them." 

"Which is?" 

"They're all as thick as pigsh—" Lucie broke off. "At least, they _act_ like they're complete pillocks." 

"Sir Philip Thorn can't be a fool," Clarissa said. "He's a government minister." 

Lucie's only answer was a derisive laugh. 

"Although it is widely believed that Miss Prentice does most of his thinking for him," Clarissa admitted.


	5. Suspects

By the time the party had returned to the house and changed their clothes, the magistrate had indeed arrived. A middle-aged, rubicund man, he acquiesced in Lord Petimont's view of the case — that Phoebe de Courcey's death was nothing more than an accident — after asking no more than a handful of questions. Further, he confidently gave it as his opinion that the local coroner would come to the same conclusion, and no reasonable man could do otherwise. Lucie and Clarissa, comparing notes after the event in a quiet corner of the salon, found that their own concerns had been dismissed with equal insouciance. 

"I told him to check if she'd been stabbed," Lucie said. "And he said not to bother me pretty little head over it. If I hadn't been wearing this stupid dress I'd have given him a good kick in the downstairs department for that." 

"To be fair, we don't have any proof that it wasn't an accident," Clarissa admitted. "But I wish you had kicked him. He told me I read too much sensational literature. As if I'd imagined nearly being knifed!" 

"We needn't expect any help from him, that's obvious. So if we want to catch whoever's after you, we'll have to do it ourselves." 

Clarissa nodded. "About that. We need to rule out, if we can, the possibility of someone who isn't one of the guests. Have you made any inquiries along those lines?" 

"Not yet. What with playing cards and doing stupid stunts for a load of drunken muppets." 

"Then I suggest we do it now." Clarissa crossed to the fireplace and gave the bell pull a firm tug. 

Lucie lowered her voice. "D'you think we should tell the other girls? If some maniac's going around stabbing people they've got a right to know." 

"Or maybe it will just create needless panic," Clarissa said. "If only we had some proof that Phoebe was murdered." 

"What, like get a doctor to look at her body?" 

Before Clarissa could answer, there was a discreet cough behind her. In perfect unison, she and Lucie jumped, and spun round. 

"You rang, your grace?" Mortlock asked. 

"No, I did." Clarissa tried to recover her calm. "Mortlock, can the Duchess and I have a word with you in private?" 

The butler bowed. "Of course, my lady. I believe that at this time of day, the second parlour will afford suitable privacy. If you would care to accompany me?" 

He led them up a flight of stairs, through several corridors, and down a narrow spiral staircase. It seemed that as soon as one left the principal apartments of Calcorton Hall, one entered parts of the building that through time and successive improvements had become a positive maze. It occurred to Clarissa that in this dense tangle of rooms, it would be easy for Lord Petimont to conceal one or more extra guests. Though presumably the servants would still know of the interloper's presence. 

The second parlour, when they reached it, proved to be a small room, its walls panelled with age-darkened oak. A colossal fireplace, its fire unlit, occupied one wall. The furnishings were of more recent date, but no longer new. 

Mortlock, having ushered the ladies into the parlour, gently closed the door and stood in an attitude of respectful attendance. Clarissa cleared her throat. 

"Mortlock," she said. "Last night, I was attacked in the garden, by a man with a knife." 

If she'd hoped for a reaction from the butler, she was to be disappointed. 

"Indeed, my lady?" he said, with no more than a quiver of his eyebrows. 

Clarissa tried to match his poise. "Indeed." 

"If you will pardon my asking, my lady, has his lordship been informed of this?" 

"I told him this afternoon. And Sir Giles." She flushed at the recollection. "They didn't believe me." 

"Then, my lady, if his lordship did not see fit to take any further action..." 

"Not so fast," Lucie said, taking a pace forward. "Just because those two are utter pillocks doesn't mean you're daft, does it? It's you who runs this place, really, not Lord Dinglebrains." 

Mortlock regarded her with no particular favour. "I am responsible for the indoor staff, your grace. In conjunction with the housekeeper, of course." 

"So if anyone'd been creeping about the grounds dressed like one of those pon— dressed like a gentleman, someone must've seen them, right?" 

"I could not speak for all the staff, your grace, but if it will help to set your mind at rest I shall cause enquiries to be made. Will that be all?" 

"I suppose you can vouch for your own men during the events of last night?" Clarissa asked. 

"When there are nocturnal entertainments of this nature, I ensure that I keep a sharp eye on them, my lady. I am prepared to give my oath that none of the indoor servants left the house until they heard the alarm raised." 

"And the outdoor servants?" 

Mortlock paused briefly. "I cannot be certain, my lady, until I have made the enquiries I mentioned earlier. But I am confident that Carruthers — the senior groundskeeper, my lady — will vouch for the men under him, as I have for mine." 

"Can we talk to him?" Lucie asked. 

Mortlock's face remained as composed as ever, but the precision of his diction increased noticeably. "Your grace, it would be, to say the least, an unusual proceeding for two ladies of quality to call upon a member of the outside staff." 

"It is hardly usual, I hope, for one of Lord Petimont's guests to be attacked with a knife," Clarissa said, forcing herself to keep her voice level. 

"Can we talk to him or can't we?" Lucie reiterated. 

"If that is your grace's wish, then every effort shall be made to comply with it. Will that be all, your grace?" 

Lucie exchanged a glance with Clarissa, and nodded. "Yeah," she said. "That's it for now." 

Mortlock bowed. "Then I shall seek out Carruthers, and make arrangements for you to question him. His duties frequently require him to be in distant areas of the estate, so it may take some little time to locate him." 

He departed, his face as expressionless as ever, but his shoulders giving the impression that he did not consider this assignment to be any part of a butler's duties. 

"So much for that," Lucie said. "Doesn't sound likely that there's some stranger hanging around. At least, not yet." 

"What do you mean, not yet?" Clarissa asked. 

Lucie snapped her fingers. "I was gonna tell you earlier, only that butler crept up behind us. There's a bloke I know — the Doctor — he's supposed to be coming here some time to pick me up. But he wouldn't be here yet." 

"How do you know?" 

"I'm guessing, really. Anyway, I know he can't be your bloke with the knife. He'd never do something like that— and I think he's too short, anyway." 

"If your friend is a doctor, would he be able to examine Miss de Courcey's body?" 

"Oh, yeah. He's seen enough of them in his time. Bodies, I mean." 

"That, at least, is something." 

"I know what you mean." Lucie threw herself into a chair with such force that it nearly went over backwards. "The Doctor sent me here for a breather. He said it'd be just my sort of thing. Like an 18-30 holiday only with stupider clothes." She looked up at Clarissa. "Sorry, not making any sense, am I?" 

"I was beginning to wonder if I was mishearing you." 

"No, just me talking rubbish." Lucie grinned. "I speak it fluently. So, what do we do while we're waiting for old Mortlock to get back to us?" 

"We still have three suspects," Clarissa said. "I fear we shall have to cultivate them. Or, rather, let them cultivate us." 

"Grope us, more like." 

"It cannot be helped. Though I think I would prefer to cultivate you." 

Lucie grimaced. "Sounds like you want to bury me in compost and shove potatoes up me orifices. I'll give that a miss, thanks." 

⁂

On their return to the salon, Lucie and Clarissa made it their business to fall into conversation with those gentlemen of the party whose physique corresponded to that of Clarissa's assailant. They first approached Sir Philip Thorn, whose mien appeared somewhat downcast. The reason soon became apparent: following her immersion in the _bagnio_ , Belle Prentice had developed a slight chill and did not feel well enough to join the party. 

"That's a pity," Lucie said, trying not to sound too inappropriately happy. "Tell you what. Why don't I keep you company so you're not on your own?" She smiled at him. "It's a great privilege to talk to someone like you. If they've given you an important job in the government... well, shows you've got something, doesn't it?" 

Thorn smiled. "It's all a matter of knowing the right people, m'dear." 

"I s'pose you get to meet the Royal Family all the time?" 

"I _am_ required to attend Carlton House now and again. I recall, on one such visit..." 

Clarissa drifted away, privately reflecting that Thorn could have no real feeling for Belle if Lucie could distract him so easily. But that was between the three of them; Clarissa had her own investigations to make. Crossing the salon, she joined the little group of guests which included Sir Percy Blakeney. He was sitting back in a chair, approaching the end of a long and rambling anecdote. 

"But y'see, the little minx was too quick for him," he drawled. "She'd already sent to the tailor and had the alterations made!" 

There was a round of perhaps somewhat dutiful laughter. 

"Oh, are we to do nothing but listen to stories all day?" Mr Ruthven asked. "What say we have Miss Sedleigh play for us?" 

Maria dimpled fetchingly. "On the piano, I trust, sir." 

"If you so desire, my dear." 

"And dancing!" one of the other gentlemen proclaimed. "D'ye know that new German dance?" 

Seemingly, enough people did that a dance was swiftly agreed upon. Seated at the piano, Maria struck up, and the dancers, two by two, promenaded into the open area of the floor. 

Neither Sir Percy, nor Clarissa, had joined the dancers. They sat for a little watching the dancers, before Sir Percy broke the silence. 

"Not inclined to join them, Lady Carlisle?" 

"I am unfamiliar with the steps," Clarissa said politely. 

"Seems simple enough to me. Don't think it would take much for you to learn 'em. If you're not a clumsy fool like me. What dances do you dance, then?" 

"I haven't danced since my husband..." Clarissa broke off, as if to make any reference to Rupert in these surroundings was in some way more shocking than the worst debauchery imaginable. 

Sir Percy was going through the elaborate ritual of taking a pinch of snuff. "It's twenty years or more since I lost my wife," he said. "One finds things to do, meets other people." 

"But you have not married again?" 

"Good heavens, no. She gave me a legitimate heir — and that's the only reason anyone'd get married, these days, isn't it?" He laughed. "For all the clergy go on about marriage, it ain't such a sacred institution as all that. I'm a simple fellow, Lady Carlisle, and I like my arrangements simple, too." He snapped the lid of his snuffbox closed. "I say, what d'ye think of that fellow Wilbraham's boots? I'll wager I could name the man who made them in three guesses." 

"I hadn't made a detailed study of men's boots," Clarissa said. "My interest tends to lie higher up." 

"Shirts, you mean?" He laughed his vacant laugh again. "There's a lot you can tell by a chap's shirt. Clothes make the man, you know." 

⁂

Clarissa remained faithfully at Sir Percy's side through the evening. His conversation continued in much the same vein, pointing out real or imagined defects in their fellow-diners' dress, occasionally varied by the simplest of jokes. When the ladies rose at the end of dinner, she retreated to the drawing-room with her head swimming, and no nearer to establishing whether he might be a clever man posing as a fool, or just a fool. 

"Get lucky?" Lucie asked, flopping onto the sofa beside her. 

"I cannot make Sir Percy out at all," Clarissa said. "He seems the veriest fool, interested only in himself. Whether there is anything behind his endless chatter, I have not the least idea." 

"Same with Wilbraham. Half the time you can't tell if he's even awake or not. And Thorn just acts like a complete thicko, all the time." 

"He does have Miss Prentice's illness on his mind, of course." 

"And if you believe a word of that, I've got a bridge to sell you." Lucie gave Clarissa a penetrating look. "I reckon if I gave him half a chance, he'd be asking me back to his room. How about your bloke?" 

"I gave him a certain amount of encouragement," Clarissa admitted. "Now and again I thought he might suggest something to me along those lines. But each time, he seemed to dismiss the notion." 

"Maybe there's something wrong with your flirting technique." 

"There is nothing the matter with my flirting," Clarissa said. 

"Seemed all right when you did it to me," Lucie admitted. "But perhaps it isn't as easy when it's with someone who might want to cut you open and scoop your insides out." 

Clarissa recoiled at the thought, feeling again the cold of the night, the grip on her arm, the sudden pain. 

"I'm feeling tired," she said out loud. "And I've drunk too much. I think I should go to bed." 

"See you tomorrow, then," Lucie said. "I'll keep an eye out just in case anything happens tonight. Like that butler getting back to us. By the way, if I was you, I'd lock my bedroom door. And stick a chair under the handle. Sweet dreams." 

Clarissa made her way, rather unsteadily, up to her bedchamber. There was, she noted, no way to lock the door, nor could she see how placing a chair below the doorknob would be in any way helpful. Resignedly, she climbed into the bed and let the nightmares claim her.


	6. Upstairs and Downstairs

"You're looking peaky today," Lucie remarked, tucking into her plate of ham and eggs with positive gusto. "Hangover?" 

Clarissa shook her head. "It is not easy to sleep in a house knowing that one of the guests wishes to murder you." 

"Any idea why?" Lucie asked. "I mean, the way you say it, it was definitely you he was after. So he's not just some random psycho. What happens to your money if you die?" 

"I have only a life interest in the estate, and no fortune of my own. The entail falls upon the Earl's second cousin, a boy of good family, and presently no more than ten years old. If I have not married by the time he comes of age, I shall doubtless be packed off to the Dower House." 

"Not money, then. What other motives are there?" 

"Love?" Clarissa mused. "No, it can't be love. I am not stealing anybody's husband, or even their wife. My continued existence poses no threat to the happiness of any other couple. Nor can I think of power as a motive; I have none to speak of." 

"Maybe he's just got a grudge. Perhaps you got in front of him once in a queue for the theatre and it's niggled at him ever since." 

"People don't murder people for things like that!" 

"Well, I dunno then. I'm only trying to help." Lucie gulped down her last piece of ham. "Have you thought about going home? You don't have to hang around here and let psychoes try and stab you." 

"I desire nothing more." Clarissa let herself imagine the scenario. All she needed to do was speak a word to Lord Petimont, the carriage would be summoned, and she would be safely on her way to Carlisle House. The temptation was great, and yet... "But I cannot." 

"Why not?" 

Clarissa tried to come up with a reasonable answer. Considering her situation logically, she had everything to gain and nothing to lose from setting out at once as she'd envisaged. And yet, she knew she would do no such thing. 

"I don't run away," she eventually said. 

"Then you're an idiot." Lucie gave her a smile. "Keep it up." 

"I shall take that in the spirit I hope it was meant," Clarissa said, and downed her hot chocolate. Feeling her own gloom lift a little, she looked along the breakfast table. 

"There don't seem to be many people here," she said. "I wonder where everybody is." 

"Belle's still having a sickie," Lucie said. "Sounds like her chill's turned nasty. And the others mostly came down before you did. Specially the men. Lord Petimont said it was a good day for shooting, so they thought they'd go out and massacre his partridges." 

Clarissa pulled a wry face. "So much for their interest in the opposite sex." 

"Yeah, I know. Just like any other bloke. Stand naked in front of them and half the time they say get out of the way, they can't see the football. Anyway, gives us the morning off." 

"Possibly." Clarissa sat up sharply, as a thought struck her. "Perhaps the villain, whoever he may be, is planning to commit murder under the guise of a shooting accident." 

Lucie shook her head. "That doesn't make sense if he's trying to murder you. You wouldn't be out there shooting birds." 

"Perhaps he has more than one victim in mind. Possibly he plans to shoot Sir Philip as well. Or if it is Sir Philip, he might mean to do away with some political rival." 

"Ministers killing each other?" Lucie grimaced. "What is this, _House of Cards_?" 

Clarissa's governess instincts took over. "Have you so easily forgotten recent events? It is barely two years since the Prime Minister was shot and killed. Not by another minister, of course — that would more likely have taken place on the field of honour than by sudden assassination — but I certainly wouldn't rule out some dark and sinister plot." 

"I get your point." Lucie looked almost guilty at her ignorance of recent history. "But if our man's planning a shooting accident, what can we do about it? If we go out there we'll just end up shot as well." 

"I don't know." Clarissa shivered. "But we must do something." 

Lucie made no answer. A moment later there was a soft cough behind them. 

"Oh!" Clarissa looked around, to see the familiar figure of Mortlock standing behind her chair. 

"What's up?" Lucie asked. 

"Yesterday, your grace, you expressed a wish to question Carruthers, the senior groundskeeper. He was away from the Hall last night, but has now returned and is expected to be in the vicinity for most of the morning, if you still desire to speak to him." 

"Too right we do. Don't we, Clarissa?" 

"Certainly." Clarissa looked down at herself. "I think we'll need outdoor clothes. Let's go and change, and then we'll ring for you again." 

"We'll be in that room where we were yesterday," Lucie added. "The second parlour. That's what it was called, right?" 

The butler bowed stiffly. "Very good, your grace. Your ladyship." 

⁂

Clad in an outdoor dress, sturdy boots and her favourite scarlet cape, Clarissa was first to arrive in the second parlour. Lucie joined her ten endless minutes later, blaming the delay not on any difficulty finding clothes to wear, but on missing a vital turning and becoming lost in the endless corridors of the Hall. 

Mortlock must have been waiting for their ring on the bell, since his arrival was as prompt as could reasonably be expected. Crossing to the far corner of the parlour, he pushed on one of the panels, causing a section of the wall to slide back. Behind it was a spiral staircase, whitewashed and well-lit, clearly for the use of the servants. 

With Mortlock in the lead, the party descended the stairs for two flights, emerging in a vaulted corridor. This led, by a circuitous route, towards the rear of the building. Through various doorways Clarissa glimpsed laundries, stillrooms and larders. A few members of staff were going about their business in what was clearly their territory. At one point, Judith rounded a corner carrying a basket of bedlinen, recognised Clarissa, and curtseyed in such haste that her burden fell to the ground. Mortlock swept past her with an icy glare at her clumsiness, and Lucie and Clarissa could perforce do no more than follow him. 

Presently, a flight of rough stone steps, their surface worn by centuries of passing feet, brought the group up to ground level. At its rear, the Hall seemed to break out into a flurry of small courtyards; they crossed the first, passed through another range of buildings, turned sharp right in the second, and emerged in a third. A long, low building lay to their left, built of brick and timber with a thatched roof. From within came the sounds of sawing and hammering. 

Not slackening his pace, the butler approached the building — plainly a workshop of some kind — and stepped through the open door. Within, much of the space was taken up by stacked timber, while a number of workmen were engaged in refurbishing a horse-drawn wagon of clumsy appearance. 

Mortlock approached a nearby workbench, where one of the labourers was shaping something that might have been a replacement spoke. The man looked up, and touched his forelock. 

"Ah, Roberts. Is Carruthers here?" Mortlock asked him. 

"That he be, Mr Mortlock, sir." The man gestured toward the front of the wagon. 

"Thank you, Roberts. Do not let me keep you from your work." 

The group approached the front of the wagon, where the drawbar had been detached and now lay on the floor of the barn. A new baulk of timber lay beside it, and several men were engaged in transferring measurements from one to the other, with the aid of chalk, pencils and lengths of string. 

"Carruthers," Mortlock said, sharply. 

A small, cheerful-looking, middle-aged man rose to his feet. 

"Mr Mortlock," he said. He touched the brim of his battered-looking hat, but there was nothing servile in the gesture; it came across almost as a salute. "Not often you comes out to talk to us." He turned back to his men for a moment. "Leave 'er be for now, Rufus. I'll come back to 'er once I'm done with Mr Mortlock and the young ladies here." He tucked his pencil behind his ear. "I hopes as you don't have fault to find with any of the work we've been doing here." 

"Certainly not." Mortlock looked around. "These ladies would like to speak to you in private." 

"Best if they does it in the brewery, then. Shouldn't be anyone around there at this time o'the morning." He touched his hat again to the ladies. "If you'd care to step this way?" 

"Of course." Clarissa turned to Mortlock. "That will be all." 

"Very good, my lady. Your grace." 

The brewery was a short walk away, a shabby-looking brick building pervaded with odours of yeast, alcohol and rot. Carruthers, having checked the premises and shooed out an under-gardener who seemed to have no proper business there, closed the door behind the three of them. 

"Now, then," he said. "What's it you two ladies'd like to know?" 

Clarissa took a deep breath. "The night before last we were all out in the gardens after dark. While I was out there, someone attacked me." 

"And then that poor girl fell in the fountain and drowned herself, or so they say." Carruthers gave her a shrewd look. "Maybe you're wondering if someone pushed her?" 

"Quite possibly. So we would like to know if any of your men noticed a stranger around the gardens around that time." 

"They'd not be. Not at that hour. Can't see to work after dark, see?" Carruthers, whose good humour seemed undisturbed by the gruesome topic they were discussing, chuckled. "If they could, Lord Petimont'd have them working nights as well as days. But they can't, so nor can he." 

"So if there was a stranger dressed as a gentleman around the garden, they wouldn't have seen him." 

"No, miss— m'lady, I should say. But I told off a couple of sturdy lads to keep an eye on the gates. Don't see as how any stranger could've got in." 

"What about over the wall?" Lucie suggested. 

"Wasn't no sign of that the next morning. Abel Harris — he's the head gardener — he was in a taking about the gentry trampling all over his flower beds. If anyone'd got in from outside, we'd have heard about it all morning." 

Clarissa exchanged a glance and a nod with Lucie. It was becoming more and more likely, to her way of thinking, that her would-be murderer was one of the house party. 

"Carruthers, you must've seen the guests here," she said. "Have you spotted them doing anything out of the ordinary?" 

Carruthers' expression remained as cheerful as ever. "'Tain't my place to say what's ordinary or not, for the quality." 

"Well, if you do come across anything suspicious, let us know." She retrieved her purse, and extracted a shilling. "Here's some compensation for your time and trouble."


	7. Discrepancy

Having parted from Carruthers, Lucie and Clarissa made their way back to the Hall, hoping that they would not have been missed. The other ladies of the party appeared to be in a state of agitation; they were flitting from room to room, unable to settle to any activity, or gathering together in twos and threes to talk in hushed voices. 

"Duchess! Lady Carlisle!" One of the ladies hurried up as the two reached the top of the grand staircase. Clarissa recognised her as Sophia Bedgwick, a good-hearted girl but a prime contender for the most determined flirt at the entire gathering. "Have you any further news of poor Miss Prentice?" 

"I haven't heard anything all morning," Lucie said. "What's happened to her?" 

"Why, her illness has taken the most serious turn." Sophia leaned forward, her face alive with excitement. "She has become feverish, and developed other alarming symptoms. As if she had partaken of something disagreeable. But that cannot be, since we have all eaten the same food and found it wholesome. It must be a consequence of her immersion in the _bagnio_ yesterday." 

"No doubt," Clarissa said, privately reflecting that others had tumbled into the same water with no apparent harm. But perhaps they had kept their mouths closed, and Belle had not. "Has Sir Philip been told?" 

"He is still out with the shooting party. We are anxiously waiting for his return." 

"And who's looking after Miss Prentice now?" Lucie demanded. 

"Rebecca, her maid. Miss Prentice sees no visitors, so we are obliged to glean what news we can from Rebecca as she comes in and out. Doctor Withers has been sent for, but it is not known if he will arrive today." 

Clarissa glanced across at Lucie, as if to prompt her: was she not expecting the arrival of a doctor of her own, at any moment? But Lucie merely shook her head, and remained silent. 

Sophia, having recounted everything she knew of the situation, soon gave way to the restlessness that seemed to have infected all the members of the party, and swept away to see if Rebecca had any further news. Clarissa and Lucie remained where they were. 

"I s'pose it could just be food poisoning," Lucie said presently. 

"All things are possible," Clarissa said flatly. 

"Or maybe it's our psycho again. D'you think he's after Belle?" 

"Or he intends somehow to use her illness against Sir Philip." 

"I don't see how. Of course, if he _is_ Sir Philip, maybe she knows too much and he wants to shut her up." Lucie paced uneasily. "Except he wouldn't use anything slow, would he? Soon as she got to know she wasn't gonna make it, she'd spill the beans. So he'd have to have a shooting accident or something." 

"A shooting accident!" Clarissa echoed. "There may be one of those in any event. Let's find somewhere we can watch for the men coming back." 

⁂

Side by side, peering out of the window of a bare room that apparently went by the name of 'Sir Giles's Study,' Lucie and Clarissa watched the shooting party return triumphantly, accompanied by a retinue of servants. 

"There's Sir Philip," Lucie said. "Doesn't look like anyone's shot him." 

"And there's Wilbraham." Clarissa looked over the party. "And Ruthven, and Lord Petimont... I don't see Sir Percy anywhere." 

Lucie shook her head thoughtfully. "No. D'you think something's happened?" 

"The others all look cheerful enough." Clarissa gave the party another look, in case she had somehow overlooked the tall, debonair figure of Sir Percy. "Let's go down and ask them." 

They hurried down to meet the gentlemen, who in turn were eager to boast of their exploits, while sparing what sympathy they could for the unfortunate Belle. Several of the young ladies, awed by the men's bravery in gunning down defenceless birds, seemed minded to make assignations for the afternoon, or even to let the men ravish them there and then, if they so desired. It was a little while before Lucie and Clarissa could engage them in conversation. 

"Blakeney?" Lord Petimont asked. "He was with us when we left the house — I remember, in the gun room, wishing him the best of luck. But now you say so, I don't recall seeing him at the coverts. I thought he was with you, Ruthven." 

"Not a bit of it," the young man replied, though his attention seemed somewhat distracted by Sophia's sweet nothings. 

"Then where can he have got to?" Clarissa muttered. 

Lord Petimont shrugged. "I daresay he's found himself pleasant company." 

"Not with any of the girls here," Lucie said. "'Cos they're all here." 

"Except Miss Prentice," Clarissa said. "But he can't be with her, she's ill." 

They exchanged glances, suspicion leaping into both their minds. 

"Some village maiden, then," Lord Petimont said. "But enough of such matters. I hope all you ladies have taken refreshment..." 

Clarissa drew Lucie aside. "I'll check on Belle," she said. "You'd better try to trace Sir Percy." 

"I'll start at the gun room," Lucie said. "You come down and find me there." 

Clarissa's visit to Belle Prentice's bedroom was a brief one. It was the work of a moment to reassure herself that Belle truly was ill, and in no condition to receive a gentleman visitor. Neither could such a visitor be concealed in the room. The maid Rebecca swore that Sir Percy had not been seen there all day; and Belle, barely able to sit up in her bed, had muttered a few words in confirmation. Clarissa thanked them both and beat a hasty retreat, glad to be escaping from the noxious miasmas of the sick-room. 

She hurried down the stairs, to find Mortlock standing at the foot of them. 

"Her Grace the Duchess of Wolfingham informed me that she wished you to meet her at the gun room," he said. 

"That's right." 

"Fearing that you might not recall the correct route, she also wished me to accompany you to the gun room." Mortlock bowed. "Will that be acceptable, my lady?" 

Clarissa barely had time to agree before she was led once more through the endless corridors of the Hall, emerging once more in the vaulted cellars. One of the arches had been bricked up, leaving a doorway filled with a massive-looking iron door. Lucie was standing beside this door, and waved cheerfully as Clarissa came in sight. 

"The principal gun room," Mortlock said. 

"Thank you." Clarissa gathered her thoughts. "Would there be anyone there now?" 

"There ought not to be, my lady." Mortlock laid a long finger on one of the many keys on his ring. "The room is kept locked, and I have the only key." 

"So if Sir Percy's got a gun and he wants to bring it back, he'd have to ask you?" Lucie asked. 

"That is so, your grace." 

"Can we check? Just to make sure?" 

Mortlock didn't sigh, but looked as if he might be _thinking_ a sigh. "As your grace pleases." 

A candelabra stood in a niche beside the door. Mortlock went through the ritual of lighting this, then approached the door, and reverently drew out his ring of keys. Carefully, he located the correct key, turned it in the lock, then pulled down on the door's large iron handle. With the clatter of bolts, the door swung open, revealing darkness. Taking the candelabra in one hand, Mortlock advanced into the room. 

The flickering candlelight was bright enough that Clarissa could make out the ancient structure of the room. Floors, ceiling, walls were solid stone; plainly, nobody could enter or leave here without the key in Mortlock's hand. Cabinets lined the walls, each one containing neatly-arranged racks of flintlocks. 

"The fowling pieces," Mortlock announced, indicating one of the cabinets. A note of unease crept into his voice. "It would appear that they are all present." 

"What's the matter?" Lucie asked sharply. 

"If Sir Percy's not here, his gun shouldn't be, either," Clarissa said. "That's right, isn't it, Mortlock?" 

Mortlock bowed. "Your ladyship is correct." 

"So he's out there without a gun." 

"Or is he?" Lucie looked around the room. "Are all the other guns here?" 

Mortlock made a hasty examination of the other cabinets. "No, your grace. One of the hunting rifles is missing." 

"You mean Sir Percy went out with a rifle instead of a shotgun?" 

"That is so, your grace." 

"And he never showed up at the coverts," Clarissa said. 

"So where is he?" Lucie said. "And what's he doing?" 

Clarissa clenched her fists. "We've got to get after him. Now!"


	8. The Hunter Hunted

Reasoning that somebody must have seen Sir Percy leaving the Hall, Lucie and Clarissa had instructed Mortlock to set urgent inquiries in motion among the servants, and then retired to their rooms to change back into their outdoor clothes. Scarcely had Clarissa pulled on her boots and red cloak than Judith was urgently knocking at the door. 

"Come in," Clarissa called, still tying her laces. 

"Your ladyship," Judith began, bustling in. "Mr Carruthers insists that he see you. He says he has urgent news for you." 

Clarissa looked up, to see the head groundskeeper, as relaxed as ever, standing in the doorway, his battered hat in one hand. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"Mr Mortlock did say as how you and the Duchess was looking for that there Sir Percy Blakeney," Carruthers said. "And you wanted to hear any news without delay. So I comes myself to tell you." He paused, as if to assess the effect of his speech on Clarissa. Apparently satisfied, he resumed. "Well, young Harry, he was mending the fence close by Marlpit Wood, and he sees Sir Percy walk past. Leastways, he don't know Sir Percy, but it was a tall man, with dark hair, and dressed like Mr Mortlock says Sir Percy was." 

"Did he say if he had a rifle?" Clarissa asked, pulling the last knot tight and rising to her feet. 

"He says he had a gun, but what kind it was he couldn't say." 

"Thank you. That's very helpful. Judith, go and get the Duchess. Carruthers, you need to show us both how to get to Marlpit Wood." 

Marlpit Wood proved to be about fifteen minutes' walk from the house. At least, it took about fifteen minutes at the brisk pace Clarissa set. An urgency was driving her on, almost palpable as a voice in her mind: Sir Percy was putting his plans into action, and she _must_ intervene. Lucie had expostulated a little when they set off, but had long since decided to save her breath for walking. 

"Is this the place?" Lucie asked, as they passed from open parkland into a wooded area. "Can we slow down a bit? I'm sweating like a nun at a cucumber farm." 

"I think so." Clarissa wiped her forehead and decided a more moderate pace might be appropriate; in the wood, the path was narrower and more sinuous. On their left, among the trees, she glimpsed a pit, easily thirty feet across, its bottom filled with a repellent mixture of stagnant water and black ooze. "Presumably, that is the marl pit after which the wood was named." 

Lucie nodded. "One of 'em, maybe. There's another over there." 

"Good." Clarissa lowered her voice. "Then we are close." 

"If he's still here." 

"I think he is." 

Lucie gave her a curious look. "How d'you know?" 

"He took a rifle," Clarissa said. "A stalker's weapon. I'm sure he must be planning to lie in ambush." 

"Bet you're wishing we were in camouflage, then," Lucie said. "'Cos in these clothes, we're pigging obvious. He'll see us coming and pick us off, just like that." 

Clarissa came to a halt, so suddenly that Lucie bumped into her. Her every instinct was urging her to hurry on, but what remained of her rational mind managed to hold her back. 

"That may be precisely what we need," she said. "He could be concealed anywhere in this wood. We need to draw him out." 

"Yeah, but how?" 

Clarissa glanced along the path. Shaded by the trees, it had muddy patches here and there; she crouched down beside the nearest and picked up a twig. Trying to remember the directions Carruthers had given her, she began to draw. "That's the drive," she said, marking a line. "This is the wood." She added a vaguely pentagonal shape, then drew another line parallel to the drive. "This is the wall between the two. If we start at opposite ends of the wall, and work towards each other, maybe he'll only see one of us, and the other one will have a chance to come upon him unawares." 

"And that's your best idea?" 

"Do you have a better one?" 

Lucie shook her head. "S'pose not." She looked down at the plan again, took a twig of her own, and stuck it in the line that represented the drive. "D'you think he's waiting for someone to come up the drive, and then shoot them?" 

"He must be." Conviction was filling Clarissa's mind. "There's no reason to expect anybody to come through this wood. But any visitor, or any departing guest, would be at his mercy. I remember when I arrived, there was a bend in the drive and the coach had to slow down. It must be about there." She pushed her twig firmly into the mud. "We should aim for that place." 

"Let's go, then." 

Clarissa hastily embraced her, then hurried off into the woodland at the best pace she could manage. The undergrowth tore at her cloak and dress, fallen branches tried to trip her, and the steep-sided clay pits were an ever-present hazard. But none of it mattered. She had to reach Sir Percy before— before — she wasn't sure before _what_ , but she knew that she dreaded it. 

The boundary wall loomed into view up ahead through the vegetation, so suddenly that she nearly bumped into it. Keeping her left hand on the brickwork, she turned to the right and began to advance more cautiously. Any tree could conceal Sir Percy; her slender hope was that, concentrating on the drive, he might not notice the activity in the woodland below him. 

With a clap of thunder, something knocked her to the ground. She was up again in a moment, looking around wildly. Where she'd been standing, the brickwork of the wall was cracked and chipped at head height, and there was a spreading damp, sticky sensation in her hair. She raised her fingers to her head, and they came away red. Perhaps the bullet had grazed her before hitting the wall, or the injury had come from a chip of brickwork it had knocked off. 

She looked around wildly. Ahead, an oak tree, tall and leafy, towered above the wall. A cloud of smoke was spreading from one of the branches. Trying to ignore the pain and bleeding, Clarissa rushed forward, hoping to close the distance before Sir Percy could reload. 

At the foot of the tree was one of the marl pits, so close that the tree's lower branches overhung the pit. As she approached it, Clarissa saw Lucie on the far side. Something about the Duchess seemed out of place, and it took Clarissa a moment to comprehend that her hair was now straight and blonde, dark at the roots as if dyed. Of the elaborate auburn curls there was no trace. She must have been wearing a wig, Clarissa realised, and it had been lost in the tangles of vegetation. 

Lucie was hurrying round the pit, trying to reach Clarissa, but every second was precious and Clarissa couldn't afford to wait. She launched herself at the oak tree, dragging herself up branch by branch. A well-shod leg kicked down at her; she caught hold of it, and threw herself sideways. As she fell, she had a vague impression of a distant figure on the road: a man, dressed in some kind of a frock-coat, who broke into a run at the sounds of struggle. 

Then she was on the ground, bruised and shaken, lying beside Sir Percy. He was already getting up, icy murder in his eyes. The rifle lay nearby, the ramrod protruding from its barrel; Clarissa launched herself at it, and caught hold of it with both hands. As she staggered to her feet, he snatched at it, pushing her back as if to crush her neck with it against the trunk of the tree. 

"Not this time, Clara Oswald," he snarled. 

Clarissa had no breath to reply, or call for help. Lucie had made it no more than halfway round the pit; she was caught in a tangle of briars, swearing furiously as she tried to free herself. Sir Percy was still relentlessly pushing Clarissa backwards. A tree root caught at her foot; she staggered and almost fell. 

_Fell_. The word seemed to echo in her head. 

Not giving herself time to think, Clarissa hooked her arm around the rifle, kicked with all her strength at Sir Percy's shins, and threw herself to the left. He staggered, wavered for a moment, but did not lose his grip on the weapon. As Clarissa toppled over the edge of the pit, he was pulled with her. Lucie's scream was the last sound Clarissa heard before the black, foul-smelling water engulfed Sir Percy and herself. 

For a few endless seconds, Clarissa struggled, keeping her hands tightly locked around the rifle. In her waterlogged clothes, she could hardly move, and the slime of the pool felt like hands dragging her down. Try as she might, she couldn't hold onto her last lungful of air; her mouth and nose were full of filthy, stagnant water. This was her every nightmare, rolled into one and magnified a thousandfold. 

The instinct, or obsession, angel or devil, that had driven her here, almost seemed to have become a voice. _Run, you clever boy_ , it began to say, accompanied by the image of the man she'd momentarily glimpsed on the drive. But whatever else it had wanted to say was lost.


	9. Past and Future

Clarissa knew she was dead. She was lying on a slab; she could feel the cold stone below her, and hear the muted voices of the undertakers. A cool sponge was pressed to her forehead. They must be washing her for burial. 

"How is she, doctor?" a nervous female voice asked. It was one Clarissa had heard before, somewhere, but she couldn't place it. 

"Her fever's broken, at last." This was a man, not known to Clarissa, elderly by the sound of him. A gentle finger lifted one of Clarissa's eyelids; she flinched at the sudden brightness. "Yes, definite signs of improvement." 

Clarissa tried to speak, to sit up, to do anything. The undertakers, if they were undertakers, seemed to notice. A blurred figure loomed over her, she felt a glass raised to her lips, and sank back into unquiet slumber. 

The next time she opened her eyes, she recognised her bedroom at Calcorton Hall. The maid Judith was sitting beside her bed, patiently working on a partly-completed dress. 

"Good morning," Clarissa managed. Her throat felt dry and hoarse, and it was a struggle to get even a few words out. "What's the time?" 

Judith gave a little shriek, and dropped her sewing. "Gone seven o'clock, my lady," she said. Clarissa recognised her voice; she had been one of the undertakers in Clarissa's nightmare. And the other would, presumably, have been the physician who had attended her. 

"You mean it's the evening?" Clarissa tried to sit up, but slumped back with a gasp as her ribs seemed to protest in unison. "How long have I been asleep?" 

"Five days, my lady." 

"Five _days?_ " Clarissa raised her head a few cautious inches. "What happened? I remember... drowning. Then I was here." 

"Your ladyship, when you and the Duchess didn't come back, Lord Petimont asked Mr Mortlock where you'd been. And then he said to send out people to look for you, but before they could, Bill Tanner came running up and said he and Pierce — they're the under-gardeners — found you and the Duchess at the marlpit. And the Duchess said to bring you back to the house, so Tanner came to get Mr Carruthers' barrow. That was the first any of us knew about it. I saw them bring you in. Dead white you were, my lady, and soaked to the skin, and hardly even breathing, and your clothes all in rags. Lord Petimont sent for the doctor straight away, but by the time he got here you were already in a fever. For the first three days we didn't dare to hope..." 

Clarissa had been trying to reconstruct the situation. She'd fallen into the water with Sir Percy, trying to ensure that whatever happened, the rifle would be lost to him. And Lucie must have got free of the thorns and pulled her out. But what had happened to Sir Percy? Had she succeeded in thwarting his plan? There was only one person who would know that. 

"Lucie," she said. "Where's Lucie?" 

"Beg pardon, my lady?" 

Clarissa swallowed. "Judith, I would like to speak to the Duchess of Wolfingham." 

This simple statement seemed to throw the maid into new depths of perplexity. "Well, my lady, that is... she's gone away, my lady." 

"Gone away?" Clarissa repeated. "When? What happened?" 

"When Tanner and Pierce brought the barrow to get you, my lady, she was with a gentleman. A stranger, not one of the party. He came back to the house with them and the Duchess and you on the barrow. And then he and the Duchess were in and out, up and down, talking to Lord Petimont and Mr Mortlock and I don't know who else. And then they left in a tearing hurry and no-one's seen them since. Nor Sir Percy, neither." Judith blushed. "They say Sir Percy was sweet on her, and he must have fought the other gentleman, and one of them must have killed the other. And, my lady, Mr Mortlock says there's no such place as Wolfingham, and her grace can't have been any sort of duchess." 

That raised all sorts of worrying questions, but Clarissa decided she hadn't the energy to go into them now. "Does Lord Petimont know?" 

"Yes, my lady. Mr Mortlock says his lordship called her grace the most awful names when he found out." 

"Well, I won't," Clarissa said sleepily. 

Over the days of her convalescence, Clarissa tried repeatedly to salvage any fragments of memory from between the moment she plunged into the water, and the moment she woke up in bed. A few scraps, that could have been memories or dreams, eventually surfaced. 

_Clarissa was lying on her back at the edge of the pit, soaking wet and chilled to the bone. Above her, trees were swaying in the wind. Lucie's mud-streaked face briefly appeared, her eyes red with tears._

_"Come on, you stupid lump." Lucie's voice was cracking with emotion. "Breathe! It's not hard. Even a countess can do it. Clarissa, please..."_

_A series of rhythmic, painful compressions on Clarissa's chest. Then Lucie's face came closer, her lips pressing against Clarissa's, her fingers pinching Clarissa's nose..._

Then there was a gap, because in her next memory, Clarissa had moved, or been moved. 

_She was lying prone in the mud, coughing up water and silt. Someone was approaching; she could hear their rapid footsteps._

_"Lucie Miller," a man's voice said. Not one Clarissa recognised; it was soft, with a faint Liverpool accent. "What **have** you been up to?"_

_"Artificial respiration." Lucie's voice sounded weary but triumphant. "Tell you what, it's nothing like what they show on the telly. Or even practising on that rubber dummy in school. The dummy doesn't keep puking in your mouth, for one thing. But it bloody well worked."_

Another discontinuity; Clarissa was on her back again, lying in what felt like straw, with her head to one side. 

_"You two, whatever happens, get her back to the house," Lucie's voice was saying. "And if anything happens to her, I'll... well, you'll be sorry. Got that?"_

_There was a vague mumble of acquiescence from someone Clarissa couldn't see._

_"Don't worry, Clarissa." That was Lucie, patting her on the shoulder. You're gonna be all right."_

_"Who is she?" the man asked — the same one Lucie had been speaking to before._

_"She's my..." Lucie paused as if searching for the right word. "Companion. Yeah." She paused briefly. "Listen, we need you up at the house. It's not just her. There's Belle been poisoned, and you've got to examine Phoebe's body too."_

_"There's not much time left, Lucie. We've got two hours at most before the breeding phase starts, and you know what that means."_

_"Yeah, I know. So we need to get to the house straight away, don't we?"_

_"All right. But we'll have to hurry."_

_Clarissa felt Lucie's lips against her cheek. "It'll be OK, Clarissa. Promise."_

Beyond that, nothing, except a vague notion of leaves in the wind. 

⁂

It was a couple of days later in Clarissa's convalescence. She had recovered to the extent of being able to rise from her bed, dress, and receive visitors. She had received brief calls from a number of the remaining guests, and so the appearance of Belle Prentice came as no surprise. 

"Lady Carlisle," Belle said, after the usual formalities and wishes for Clarissa's recovery had been dealt with. "You were, of all of us, the closest to the Duchess— to the lady who called herself the Duchess of Wolfingham. Would you be able to pass a message on to her?" 

"Sadly not." Clarissa shook her head. "I have not the smallest notion of her real identity, or where she came from, or where she went." 

"No more do any of us. But if you should see her, please do me the courtesy of passing on my thanks. By summoning Doctor Smith to my bedside, she saved my life." 

"He treated you? But as I understand it, he saw you only for a moment." 

Belle's dark blue eyes rested on her. "That is true. But a moment was all he needed to determine that my medicine had been poisoned. He ordered it destroyed and I began to recover at once." 

"Poisoned?" Clarissa repeated. "By Sir Percy?" 

"I have my own notions on that score." Belle gave her a slight smile. "It would greatly serve the purposes of the French government, and those who sympathise with it, if I were to perish. But now I am on my guard, I do not believe there will be another attempt. And if the worst should happen, I have friends enough in our own Government to avenge me." 

Clarissa sank back in her chair as fatigue once more reached up to claim her. "I must rest now. Thank you for visiting me. You're a remarkable woman." 

"As are you, Lady Carlisle," Belle said, rising to leave. 

⁂

Clarissa, standing in the entrance hall, was passing the time by idly looking at the picture hanging over the mantelpiece. It showed, she presumed, some ancestor of Lord Petimont, with his family. In the background was a building that might be the Hall as it had been in Jacobean times. 

"Lady Carlisle." 

She turned to see Mr Wilbraham crossing the hall to join her. He bowed and kissed her hand. 

"You depart today, as I understand it," he said. 

Clarissa nodded. "Within the hour." 

"Then I feel you are owed some sort of apology, for the injuries that blackguard inflicted upon you." 

"Thank you." Clarissa gave him a puzzled look. "But why should that apology come from you?" 

He chuckled. "Because I'm Percy Blakeney, damnit! Not the sort of thing a fellow expects to hear, that there's some ivory-tuner going from house to house making free with his good name. And worse yet, his wife's good name. Widowed twenty years, indeed! If you came to Richmond you'd see her alive and fit as a fiddle." 

"So... you came here to see what this man was up to," Clarissa said. 

"Quite. Kept a quiet eye on him. And on everyone else, of course. You and the Duchess gave me a lot of trouble. For all I knew, you were his accomplices, and one of you had made away with Phoebe de Courcey." 

"We thought it might be you." 

"Of course you did! I cherish the memory of my most subtle interrogation by the Duchess. So when you rushed off to Marlpit Wood, I followed you." 

"We didn't see you." 

Wilbraham — Sir Percy — chuckled again. "Naturally not. Please allow me the ordinary measure of competence in these matters. When you divided your forces, I followed the Duchess, as the more likely villain of you two. I was still doubtful, d'you see, whether you were the fellow's confederates or his enemies." 

"You made up your mind, I presume, when he shot at me." 

"At that point I was some way behind the Duchess. I reached the pit just as you and the impostor fell into the water, and assisted her to retrieve you. She was in a high temper, and I learned some most interesting new words." 

"And then the under-gardeners found us," Clarissa said. "They didn't say you were there." 

"They were instructed not to. I went for help at once and found them at work. One I sent for the barrow, the other I ordered to return with me. They were under strict orders not to mention my part in the proceedings." 

"Why?" 

"An old habit of caution, my dear, no more." 

Clarissa looked up at him. "Whatever your motives, sir, I am sure that you saved my life. Surely that's better than any mere apology." 

"Nonetheless, I believe I owe you a trifle more. My wife and I would be delighted if you were to grace us with your presence at Richmond. Though I can't promise to match Petimont's tastes." 

"I've had quite enough of _those_ ," Clarissa said firmly. 

That thought stayed with her long after she had parted from the real Sir Percy. As Lord Petimont bade her farewell, as the footmen loaded her luggage into the carriage, as the coach rumbled down the drive, she returned time and again to it. It wasn't just that she'd lost whatever taste she had for debauchery. The compulsion that had driven her to Calcorton Hall, that had sent her to near-certain death in Marlpit Wood, that had hurled her and the false Sir Percy into the abyss, seemed utterly absent from her mind. And, now that she thought of it, she had not had a single nightmare since that day, either. She felt as if her life were a blank slate, ready for her to write on it whatever she willed. 

She sat back, and let the coach carry her to a future she'd never expected to have.


End file.
